No Happy Endings
by sandwiches
Summary: The end of a dream. Warning: character death. SJ.


Disclaimer: Don't own them, never will. Just writing for fun and no monetary gain whatsoever!

Categories: Angst

Warnings: Character death

Rating: T+

Pairing: Jack/Sam

Summary: The end of a dream.

No Happy Endings

As the chill of the wormhole gripped him, he realised he had always wanted to ask her how he could still think when his body was travelling in millions, or maybe billions, of little pieces. Not thinking of anything much, you know, just stuff like, 'Oy, this is cold' or, 'This part really sucks'. In fact, this was the most he had ever thought in transit.

He knew he would never know. Not now.

As he stepped out of the event horizon and onto the ramp, the clang of his boots on the metal rang like a death knell, jarring his mind as it tried to make him reconnect with reality. But he couldn't. Not here, in front of everyone. Not now.

He heard more boots on the ramp, signalling the arrival of Teal'c and Daniel. He couldn't look around, couldn't bring himself to witness his Jaffa friend reverently carrying the broken body of the woman he loved back home. No, not the woman he loved. Not now.

Her shell. She was gone from it. No more scientific leaps of brilliance, no more smiles to make his heart stop, no more quiet conversations about everything yet nothing next to the campfire at night-time, no more blue jello. No more Sam. Not now, not ever.

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He didn't remember getting to the infirmary. Just fleeting impressions. The General, so sad but stately, had been the first to speak to him. This he knew. A strong hand on his shoulder, a softly spoken, "I'm so sorry, son." His feet leaden as he marched alongside the gurney moving her covered shell along silent corridors. One or two people saluting in respect as they passed. The strong smell of disinfectant assaulting his senses as they arrived.

The medical staff worked in near silence, efficiently processing what was left of SG1 through the familiar post-mission routines. Janet tried to talk to him, her own lower lip shaking and her eyes welling with unspilled tears as she struggled with her own emotions, and struggled to determine just how broken he was. He reached out to her for a moment, placing a gentle hand on hers and letting the numbness lift, if only momentarily.

"It was quick, Janet. She never even knew...". Even to his own ears, his voice sounded gravelly, guttural.

Brief eye contact, a small nod and he let himself stop feeling again. Hoping that this thick dull blanket of nothing would smother him.

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Contrary to popular belief, he knew exactly where his office was, and as soon as he was released from the infirmary he forced himself to walk straight there, swiftly locking the door and slumping on the chair behind his desk. As he ran his fingers along the cool woodgrain surface, he slowly allowed the tears to fall. There was no hysteria, though. No racking sobs tore at his frame, no cries of sadness or mourning escaped him. Not now.

The tears, in their multitude, simply tracked down his face. Silent witnesses to his aching grief.

In time, some time, they slowed and finally stopped. He was desolate inside.

There would be no happy endings. Not now.

He reached into his desk. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the lock on the small box he had kept hidden at the back of the bottom drawer for years, hoping that he would never have to open it and that he could, one day, destroy it's contents and move on to a happy life with her. But that wasn't going to happen. Not now.

He flipped the lid open and with trembling hands removed the three items, placing them almost gently on his desk.

Firstly, to his right, a resignation letter. Explaining that after her passing, there was no point to his fighting on. He had lost his reason to do so.

Secondly, in front of him, a picture of her. Eyes shining with mirth and innate intelligence, lips lifted into a soft smile. So full of life then. But not now, not ever again.

Thirdly, to his left, a gun. Not any gun though. The gun. The gun his real life nightmares were made of. The gun he had allowed to take his son away.

His eyes flicked from item to item. He was surprised at how dispassionate he was, how he wasn't emotionally pulled either one way or the other. His gaze was drawn to the blinking light on the camera high up in the corner. He didn't have long.

He knew he would have to decide. And now.


End file.
